


the horror in our hearts

by petraquince



Series: A Very Godly Mess [1]
Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BAMF Erik, Charles Always Says the Absolute Worst Thing He Could Possibly Say, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, F/M, Gen, Gratuitous commas, Gratuitous italics, M/M, Philosophy bashing, Purple Prose, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-14 00:31:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2171160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petraquince/pseuds/petraquince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A grieving and bitter Charles Xavier takes out his frustrations on the first person to rub him the wrong way. Little does he know the other man is a demigod too. It all goes downhill from there, between the serial murderer and the serial miscommunications and the whole "falling in love" business. A modern!AU and Percy Jackson/XMFC crossover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Introduction Of Sorts

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings. Let's see how this goes!

"We cannot build the future by avenging the past." -- T.H. White, _The Once and Future King_

 

Outside the station, the night was making good on its promise of becoming a cold and wet one. The wind moaned and clung to the departing subway cars, sounding for all the world like whale song. Albeit one occasionally interspersed with bouts of strident metal-on-metal screeching.

If Charles had been any less preoccupied by the parade of unpleasant thoughts marching through his head, he might’ve made a number of hauntingly witty comments to that effect, which would’ve at least -- at the very _least_ \-- garnered him the phone number of the attractive blonde standing a few feet away from him.

The hour was such that very few people were out and about to begin with; the woman in question being one exception, and fewer still deigned travel by underground. And even less cared to be out of doors during this kind of weather. That meant, essentially, that there were fewer people (approximately six) around to watch when he eventually lost his shit.

Charles could feel it already: all the frustration and fear and pent up anger of the day, which just happened to be historically awful -- just building up behind his sinuses and the floodgates of his mind. It was just waiting to be unleashed on the next poor unfortunate soul who dared invoke his ire. Angry tears escaped his eyes despite an ironclad will to the contrary.

He wiped at them furiously.

As it was, a few minutes ago he’d muffled a (not quite metal-on-metal but close) scream in the folds of his scarf, unable to control himself any longer. Even better, only one of his fellow sleepless masochists noticed this desperate vocal action. The other person was a tall, thin and frankly gorgeous man who just sitting on a nearby bench, reading. He’d spared Charles a single supercilious glance and a tiny smirk that just dared him to try it, to just jump onto the live tracks and end it all -- and after all that serious nonverbal communication simply returned to his book and didn't look up again.

Nietzsche. Or someone likewise Eastern European, introspective and pretentious. Like Kafka. Charles would bet his very soul on it. This coming from a man planning to make pickup lines based on transportation inspired whale song.

He hated people like that, who just watched others at train stations. Others who have had historically, _monumentally_  awful days; just watch as they contemplate suicide. Never mind that the suicidal thoughts had indeed occurred to him, and that he had seriously considered it for one fleeting moment before pulling himself together. The point remained: to him and other telepaths, these people had the most obnoxious and cloying minds of all. If the regular hum-drumming drones of daily life were like the smell of coffee or flowers, they were like cheap perfume.

However, he could sense almost nothing from this man; it was as if he had cordoned his mind off from the public, like it was a piece of fragile machinery or an exhibit in pottery at an art gallery. An impressive feat for a mere mortal.

Charles _did_ feel like breaking something.

Now, these were dangerous thoughts. He would attempt to be civil. He needed a distraction, didn’t he? And this man could possibly redeem himself from the mental Cotton Candy Fantasy purgatory status Charles had already assigned to him, given the chance. This one at least promised conversation extending beyond “Some weather, eh?”, even if it did prove to be a maddening experience and very bad idea. The blonde woman looked rather vapid, the only other man was sketching the two girls holding hands and the last woman had a certain, dead look in her eyes.

Charles could imagine that it resembled his own.

Their thoughts surrounded him, caressed him and threatened to pull him back down ( _late_ and _love you's_ and _stand still please I really don’t want to have to be awkward and ask_ ). But not the aloof stranger's. How very odd.

He pinched a hand to the bridge of his nose as he sent up a quick prayer. _O Mother, please stop my tongue before I say anything too virulent tonight, because I really am not allowed to die yet. I have many more miles to go before I sleep and promises to keep, amen and ta very much_.

On the plus side, the other man was very attractive. Charles could appreciate that. His neck was bent slightly to look down on the pages, and the muscles visible even from under a deep black turtleneck bunched like satin and rippled like water with every minute movement.

Before Charles could change his mind, he strode purposefully over to the bench and sat down next to the man, a little closer than two veritable strangers would ordinarily sit on an otherwise unoccupied bench.

“Well?” The man asked him in a very supercilious tone of voice, not even looking at him or showing any other sign of acknowledging his continued existence. This action alone sent the man juddering down to freshmen-discovering-Axe-highschool-hallway status in Charles’ mind books. There was a faint Irish lilt to his voice, with deeper traces that suggested at Teutonic origins.

“Excuse me?” Charles queried, trying to maintain some semblance of politeness. “What did you say?”

The man heaved a sigh. It was of the the-youth-of-today-what-have-they-come-to-why-must-I-waste-my-precious-time-on-these-plebeians breed of exhalation. And this man was a master. Charles sat in awe. They still hadn’t exchanged actual eye-contact yet.

“There’s a saying that a man only looks like you do -- panicked, vaguely nauseous, and yet at the point between rage and serenity --”

Oh _yes_ , Charles is very much regretting this. If the man keeps up this level of highbrow sass, Charles is going to do something bookworms were never designed to do. The stranger is thoroughly muscled: Charles is not. So he would regret it all the most thoroughly if this man (found: one highly unlikely looking philosopher at subway station; reward given to any who will take him back to his slam poetry reading -- he’s rather lost and needs to resume his commentary on humanity) returned the favor.

If you consider a right hook to the _eyeball_ a courtesy.

“-- when they have either found or lost their God. Or alternatively, their woman. Take your pick,” He shrugs, turning his head from the pages slightly to meet his eyes. Charles’ murderous rage must not’ve been showing on his visage, because the man smiled quickly at him. It displayed a predatory level of teeth.

Charles laughed. It was a very ugly, bitter laugh that in no way resembled actual amusement. The smile fell off the man’s face with a _plop_ at the sound -- ah, now the murderous rage was showing. Loosing a woman. As if. Raven was no woman. She was pure fire trapped inside the skin of a demigod -- granted, one with cobalt skin. Oh, _Raven_.

“Oh, my friend, don’t I just wish the first was the case.” He clenched a fist reflexively, “Don’t I _just_. Loosing god would be a dream come true. Only for me, you’d have to change ‘god’ to its plural form (a concept many a mortal refuses to even entertain, believe you me), and add the word ‘Greek’ to the front of that. It would take the loss of about fifteen before you’d even start to make a bloody _dent_ in the pantheon --”

There was a soft _fwump_ as the book fell from his companion’s hands to land on the filthy tiled floor. _The Trial_ , Charles noted. He’d _so_ called it, hadn’t he. He was _so_ in the soup now, wasn’t he.

“I’m sorry, but did you just -- did you just say _Greek_?” The man interrupts his spiel, a dumb expression marring an otherwise flawless profile.

Charles stared down his long nose at the man, eyes narrowed, and that does it. That’s all there is, Gansey, because it’s the straw that broke the camel’s back and caution is thrown to the wind. There is a hole in his floodgates, and nothing can snatch nasty words out of the air once they have been uttered. Every visceral feeling Charles has been harboring for hours comes pouring out.

“Yes, I said Greek. Greek! Like bloody Zeus _Greek_!” Charles sees illogical red and spits out his words. “Shall I repeat it once more for you, my poor metaphysical wayfarer? Or is your mind so moth-eaten by recreational forays into man’s inner nature that you can no longer distinguish between the sounds of the English language? Fucking gods. Fucking Zeus. I hate them all, and I hate you especially, you, you _sheltered_ human.”

This is so unlike him -- so bitter. Oh, _Raven_.

“I --” the man starts, but Charles cut him off with an uncharacteristic snarl.

“ _You have no idea what I have lost._ What I have sacrificed for you, you stupid beautiful human.”

The few people left are staring that them with that peculiar New Yorker stare that involves looking until it leaves scorch marks and yet pretending not to at the same time. Charles doesn’t need to read their minds to know they all think he’s lost his marbles, that they think he’s some crackpot Brit assaulting innocent bystanders in the name of a pagan idol. Charles needs to moderate his volume and get a grip, and the man needs to stop looking like Charles just shot his grandmother. It’s a look scarily conducive to pity. Charles never knew someone’s expressions could change so bloody fast.

“Are -- are you like me?” The man asked, now cautious and shrinking like he expected to be beaten for the mere sound of his voice, liked he barely dared to hope. “I thought I was alone.”

Wait, _what?_

His brows are furrowed and something ( _holy Hephaestus, is that the tell-tale glimmer of tears, it_ is. _Charles Xavier, you’re such a bloody_ star, _aren’t you_ ) glints in his eyes. Most of the wrath leeched out of Charles at the mere sight of those, as they slowly catch in his lashes. They are, by the way, a remarkable amalgam of blue-grey-green-gold-hazel. The eyes, that is, not the eyelashes. Those are of a finely spun gold.

Well. That is also completely and particularly irrelevant, seeing as how he’s just made him _cry_. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, the universe presents to you for your pleasure: Charles Francis Xavier. Savant, demigod and kicker of puppies extraordinaire.

But part of the weight of the day has been lifted from his chest, much to his horrified guilt.

“Oh, Christ, can this get any worse?” Charles moaned, burying his head in his hands. He’s mixing theologies now, reaching dangerous drinking adage territory. Both “beer before liquor” and manichaeism are large cosmic no-nos. He refuses to let the shamed blush surely forming show. It probably will anyway, damn his pasty white heritage.

Oh, _Raven. What would you do in my stead, darling girl?_

That answer is simple enough: the crying man. By now, she’d likely be drinking this delectable stranger under the table in some dingy pub and trading life stories and going home with him in a dirty cab. Not insinuating he’s a Cro-Magnon incapable of comprehending spoken word due to an existentialist overdose, like her brother just did.

Charles turned back to the man, who really is shedding actual tears of salt water. “My dear chap, I really am so terribly sorry. I didn’t mean -- I am so sorry. I’ve been beastly to you.” He dug around in his pocket for a moment, ignoring the cold weight of Celestial Bronze until his fingers close upon his handkerchief, which he offers to the man. “Charles Xavier, at your service.”

The man who looks up at him has pink eyes and a shiny face and the air, if what he’d been saying previously still held true, of someone who had just found his god. “Erik Lehnsherr. My mother always told me she was Aphrodite.”

Someone screams.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the exact point in time when Charles can attest to all and sundry, swearing most solemnly on his father’s grave, that all hell breaks loose. Righteously. Really, he should know better by now than to go around tempting fate -- he’s a demigod, for Christ’s sake. It’s like wearing a sign that says “kick me” in a universally known language. It will get worse, it will go wrong and it will happen.

The pretty blonde, who had previously been standing unremarkably at the edge of the platform, has just done something remarkable -- something even Charles (seasoned veteran of the remarkable though he is) has never seen before.

Someone far cleverer than the rest screams again.

Charles stood up out of pure shock, nerves piloted courtesy of adrenaline. “Holy buggering _shite_.”

He has just been audited by the holy tax accountants, because if this isn’t karma then nothing is. This is your prize at the bottom of the cereal box after you make handsome men cry like babies for no reason but to make yourself feel better. The whole potential _son of Aphrodite_ concept-thingy hasn’t even registered within him yet. There is literally no room for it in the spinning maelstrom previously known as Charles’ mind.

The man next to him is standing up now as well, every line of his body taut, tears stifled quickly.

The woman has...well, it’s quite extraordinary, really. She’s shed the Mist like it was a layer of clothing, and her true form is one of pure diamond. Her mind is a dangerous sliver, cold and shatterproof. A female Earthborn? The humans are swarming around her like she’s the Kaaba and they're pilgrims. It's a recipe for disaster.

It would be fascinating if he wasn’t so damn scared of her: she must be uncommonly strong to get past Charles' radar.

“RUN!” He screamed to the rest of the mortals clustered around her in the suddenly much too small space. “RUN, you silly fools! Just because she’s shiny does _not_ mean you should flock to her like -- like a barrage of magpies!”

His words do manage to penetrate through their thick little skulls once she -- it? This is confusing, what pronouns should he use to refer to a monster that he previously considered getting off with? Charles feels very uncomfortable somewhere in that brain of his -- shrieks.

It is a shriek to end all others, a poetic echo considering Charles’ hypothetical introductory remarks. It makes Charles reel and clutch at his ears, which turn out to be bleeding after a cursory finger check. The mortals collectively leg it and the station empties. Only one other person remains.

“Are you _mad_? Are you completely out of your _skull_?” Charles yells at the man, shoving him slightly. “Get the ruddy hell away from here, you stupid git!” As he is saying this he spins around, putting the man behind him defensively as he fished for the fountain pen in his pocket. With trembling fingers, he cupped it in his hands, breathing on it frantically. Much like the legendary Riptide, Enkéfalos’ true nature is shown when the pen is uncapped -- but the wielder had to warm it up first to get the gears running.

The Earthborn is clearly smirking at him, and she started striding slowly over. She already knew she’d won this round, without even having to kill anyone else. The dim lighting catches on her facets and the effect of it is quite blinding, light dancing around on the walls. Her feet left spiderwebbing craters where e’er she walked -- talk about poetry. Charles is struck dumb by the sheer beauty of it, and is consequently struck down. She is suddenly there, next to him, and her arm extended faster than Charles could comprehend and she swatted him across the chest, sending him flying.

He rolled ungracefully, and scrabbled to a stand. His chest hurt like the very dickens, but he raised his transformed sword with a cry and surged forward. Utterly futile. She stabbed at him with her mind, and he felt something in his give slightly and Charles collapsed with a cry, Enkéfalos falling out of his hands to land on the floor with a _chink_.

Then there is pain, of the most pure variety: not of the body but of the soul and mind. It is unlike anything else the man has ever felt, like someone is prying apart his thoughts with carding combs and ripping at him from the inside. Blood trickles from his nostrils and down his lips, tasting like salt, mingling with the blood from his bitten tongue. A huge, heavy foot pressed down sharply on his already beleaguered ribs with a crunch. He howled.

_Is this what Raven felt?_

Well, this isn’t the worst way to go in the world all things considered -- dying at the hands of a beautiful woman made of pure shininess. Talk about magpies.

_Raven...I’m afraid._

 

Really, the only problem now is that the pain went on and on and it didn’t end. Charles had thought death was supposed to be a peaceful affair -- most importantly, when you are dead your nervous system by and large stops functioning and you loose all sensation. This has not yet happened, though it’s very dark.

There is a voice above his head, and it’s not Thanatos or the hypothetical celestial barrister’s -- it’s raspy and alarmed. Frantic. How quaint…

“Charles! Charles Xavier!”

“What more could you lot possibly want from me?” Charles mumbled, slowly coming to the realization that it’s dark out because his eyes are shut tight, not because he’s dying.

Calloused fingers pushed something warm into his mouth -- ambrosia. It tastes like toad-in-the-hole, fresh and piping hot. The pain in his ribs and mind abated. The anger and bitterness inside him is gone, too, for the time being. Maybe the Earthborn beat some sense into him.

The man -- Erik, was it -- is looking down at him from above, concern creasing the corners of his eyes. “Are you alright?”

Charles made a quick tally. There is blood crusting in his peacoat and down his face, ruining his favorite scarf. Apparently, his t-shirt has been shredded by an angry hamster. The diamond bint appears to be vanquished; he’s still alive; and Erik might either be a demigod or delusional. He is not quite sure what make of it all, but carpe diem and all. Seize the hunks while you still can, because one day you will be bald and no one will ever want to date you.

“Please forgive me,” He said very formally, meeting Erik’s sinfully attractive eyes and turning his charm knob up to eleven. He’s been told that at that point his big blue eyes take up approximately half his face most becomingly.“I do believe I’ve been a giant wanker. I’m not usually such an arse.”

“No harm done,” Erik shrugs. “I can’t really feel murderous feelings towards someone who nearly bit it five minutes ago.”

Ah, that is the kind of eloquence right there that made this country great. “And I also don’t typically goad people into snapping at me.” Erik looked slightly abashed. “I feel the need to point that out.”

Baloney. The man had that air about him, that tiny feel exuding from his mind along with a sharp, pessimistic sense of humor -- the first impressions Charles had gotten from him yet. _But I don’t care, because he’s built like Cupid and sometimes I feel like making people cry, too. Today is one of those days, apparently._

“Would you like to go out for a coffee with me?” Charles queried, very carefully. “Because absolutely none of this nonsense is your fault and I’d feel considerably less guilty if you let me buy you something.”

“Why, Xavier,” Erik said with a tight smile, “are you propositioning me?”

He sure is.

“Why, yes, I suppose I am.” Charles replied, still lying on the ground in a puddle of his own drying blood. “The verdict?”

“I’ll give it to you this once, due to your being covered in blood and monster dust and what-have-you.”

Apparently, their minds run along much the same lines. Charles is not sure whether this is a good omen or a bad one. Frankly, at this point, he is also beyond caring. _He’s gorgeous and he’s going on a date with me_. _What more can I ask for?_

“Pity date,” He nodded crisply. “ _Excellent_. My favorite kind.”

“I’m fresh out of the spontaneous ones.” Erik deadpanned.

They exchanged gleeful looks, like _finally, someone who understands my multi-syllabic words in this wasteland of modern society_. Charles nods again. He experimentally clapped Erik’s shoulder then gripped it tight to lever himself up off the ground. He wrinkled his nose: drying blood, like cheap perfume, was a truly awful smell.

“My dear fellow, I do hate to put you in such an awkward position, but do you possibly have any spare clothes that I may purloin indefinitely for our date? I’m afraid gore is frowned upon in most Starbucks of repute these days.”

“Wait, now? You want to go on a date _now_?” Disbelief colored the taller man’s voice and he checked the time on his wristwatch with enviable flare. “It’s one-twenty-three. In the morning.”

This does not even register as an issue in Charles’ mind. He has larger fish to fry, and time is not a concern in the grand scheme of things. He has never been quite this forward before (not that he could ever claim to being shy), but there is a funny little nudge in the back of his mind that screams _he is important, don’t let him get away!_ He’s not one to ignore the funny little nudges, being a telepath and all.

“Carpe diem, my good man. Brushes with death have a funny way of revealing our priorities, don’t they?” He shed his coat with a mournful noise and carefully unwound his scarf, jumping ecstatically on the inside. “I don’t even want to begin to comprehend the obscene amount of money cleaning my coat is going to cost me.”

“I knew you were a philanderer.” The other man muttered -- fondly? “From the moment I first laid eyes on you.”

Nonetheless, a heretofore unseen duffel bag is produced and unzipped with a rasp. Charles experienced a sudden dryness of mouth, imagining Erik’s hands doing...things. Indecent things. Involving indecent urges.

Erik dug around in it for a few moments, muttering what are no doubt obscenities in what sounds like German. German is a bit hard to miss. _Oh bugger, does that mean he’s Hegel, too, because that’s a bit of a turn-off_. The other man produced a plaid button down and a slightly worn pair of jeans, and handed them to Charles, who accepted them gratefully.

“First you insult my choice of reading, then you proposition me, now you’re stealing my clothes. What else have we missed?” Erik inquired, humor lighting his eyes. Which are currently golden-hazel and if that isn’t a gorgeous sight then Charles is a bandy-legged platypus.

“Really, Erik.” Charles said imperially, rolling his eyes, thinking of how his thumb brushed Erik’s as he cradled the bundle of clothes carefully. “Kafka is naught but a glorified piss receptacle for long words. Reading philosophy is a waste of time, my friend, for it tells us nothing we cannot learn for ourselves firsthand. Now, Tolkien knew his onions. Or rather, potatoes.”

Erik released a deep groan (Charles must take a deep breath and picture Gleeson Hedge in sparkly tulle and gaudy lace and rue the fact his libido has suddenly been restored to that of an eighteen-year old’s). He tilted his head back at the ceiling like he was yelling at one or more of the gods and needed better acoustics to do so.

“You’re a nerd, too, aren’t you? I just knew it. You have that --” here he gestured expansively with his hands, “look about you. Like you speak Elvish or something.”

Well, there _had_ been that one misguided attempt in the summer of his sophomore year, but the past is well contained in the past for a reason. Charles had absolutely no intentions of enlightening Erik to the contrary.

“Here be dragons,” Charles grinned, biting his lip quickly. It’s his signature move. Erik’s eyes catch on the brief movement and darken to a rich brown. _Fuck me, that’s really hot -- mood irises instead of those tacky little rings_.

“You’re adorable. It’s hot.” Erik said bluntly. Charles makes an executive decision in the blink of an eye: it’s not just a good omen, it’s a bloody great one.

“Thank you,” He said devoutly, “That makes me feel a lot better. Now, if you’ll excuse me temporarily.”

Charles took off like a bat out of the underworld, scurrying for a bathroom he knew existed somewhere in this labyrinth before he jumped Erik’s very bones.

 

Once in the bathroom, he paused in front of the mirror for a quick assessment. Gods, he hasn’t done one of these since he was a teenager. His hair is mussed but he rather likes it. The blood, however, must go, so Charles submits himself to the indignity of a cat-bath in the sink. There is too much color in his cheeks, so he pressed cold paper towels to his face until he couldn’t feel his nose. His eyes are fine -- sparkling, even. There are faint scrapes on his face -- remnants, no doubt, from the epic tumble he took at the hands of the Earthborn. The ambrosia had worked veritable wonders.

There is a small pain left in his head from her assault, but he’s confident it’s nothing a good cup of coffee can’t fix. Sighing, Charles finally shrugged out of his shirt, wincing at the pain his movements caused. There are red splotches and scratches scattered over his ribs that ache when he presses on them and ooze a few drops of blood -- not too bad, in the grand scheme of things. However, in the center of his chest is a deep purple-viridian island of pain from the Earthborn’s foot. His sternum still feels cracked and is deeply sore, but it’s a pain he can handle.

 _Raven_. In the excitement of things, he’d almost forgotten. Instantly, he’s hit by a nauseating wave of guilt that has him clutching at the ledge. He should be hunting down her killers and ripping them limb from limb, not socializing with a dishy specimen. No, that’s not quite right. That logic is intrinsically flawed, isn’t it. She would’ve wanted her brother in all but blood to date hot men and be _happy_ , not pine after her and become a soulless automaton. He’s sure of it.

All in due time. He will find who killed her, but in the meantime he will loose himself and take coffee with Erik and attempt to unravel (literally and figuratively) this man who claimed to be one of Aphrodite’s brood. Granted, aren’t all of them supposed to be claimed by now, whisked away to camp?

“Focus, Xavier,” He told himself, looking in the mirror with a wry twist to his lips. “One enigma at a time.”

So he slid his arms into the sleeves of Erik’s shirt, feeling slightly like a child playing dress-up. He is slightly drowned in soft washed cotton that smells like frankincense and peppermint oil. Nothing like Cotton Candy Fantasy -- _excellent_. The man is clearly built far differently than Charles: much taller with a longer torso and broader shoulders. He’d hazard a guess that Erik’s turtleneck hid more beautiful muscles than the ones he already knew existed. The pants are a bit of a squeeze to get into: Charles has to suck in his stomach and pray to the goddess of sartorial forgiveness that he doesn’t look dumpy when he has to roll up the legs. They do marvels for his bum, though. After seeing him in these, no one would ever care he’s rather short. 

“Courage,” He muttered, running a hand through his slightly damp hair in a gloriously failing attempt to restore volume to it. Alas and alack.

He leaves his ruined shirt in the bin on his way out and folds the trousers in his arms methodically as he walks back to his awaiting white knight.

“Nose powdered?” Erik asked, his smug, possessive smile no doubt a direct product of the fact Charles is wearing his clothing. _Good gods, must resist indecency_.

Charles rolled his eyes and gestured to Erik’s bag, clutching his clothes. “May I stow these?”

“Certainly,” Erik acquiesced with a nod, and then added with a sharkish grin. “I might actually have a plastic bag in there, buried under my Aristotle omnibus.”

“ _Joy_ ,” Charles deadpanned. “yet another reason to thank the Greeks.”

“Have any ideas as to a coffee shop open now?” Erik fluidly checked the time again -- showoff. “It’s one-forty.”

“Ye of little faith,” Charles scoffed. “I know the perfect place.”

 

Frankly Hazelnut is an adorable little coffee shop tucked away between di Angelo’s Flowers and Funeral Wreathes For All Occasions and a mechanic specializing in limbs for the particularly unfortunate demigods. They’re part of what is affectionately known as the “Greek quarter”: a work in progress shielded in the Mist from mortals, care of Hecate, designed to be demigod friendly. It’s part of a cheers-very-much-you-lot gift from the vast pantheon up above for saving their collective arses. Again.

The shop in question remained open twenty-four hours and seven days a week, just in case of emergencies. Namely frightening lack of caffeine, apocalyptic levels of sleep deprivation and really annoying hellhounds. The walls are lined with celestial bronze panelling worked in floral squares and art-nouveau posters: Charles’ usual spot is the one tucked in an alcove beneath Mucha’s _La Dame Aux Camélias_.

The bell tinkled cheerily as Charles opened the door for Erik, who appeared temporarily struck dumb for the second time in one night. Any doubts he may have had as the accuracy of Erik’s claimed parentage are temporarily (temporarily, mind you. One enigma at a time) assuaged. He’s definitely not mortal. That does leave considerable wiggle room, though.

Jason is behind the counter tonight, long-suffering and eating a biscuit that had more icing than the demigod digestive system could normally tolerate. His fiancé was perched on the edge of the glass case, shuffling a deck of cards. At the sound of the bell, both of their heads popped up like meerkats.

“You look like death warmed over.” Nico eyed Charles, a trace amount of concern in his black eyes. As always, the demigod’s mind radiated an untouchable aura with the scent of mothballs and kitchen spices. “And believe me, I know what that looks like.”

“Neeks,” Jason scolded, “Be nice.”

 _Neeks_. Charles filed that little tidbit away with a gleeful smile for future reference. Nico scowled darkly, irritably going back to shuffling the cards. Charles’ face felt like it was about to crack in half due to sheer, unadulterated delight. Jason tsked. Where Nico was all dangerous edges, Jason was mellow: he had the smell of cinnamon buns, curry and ozone.

He pulled a small, indulgent grin and waved minutely. On him, the action was debonair and not awkward. “Hey, Charles, the usual? And for your friend…?”

“Yes please, cheers Jason. And Erik, meet Jason and Nico,” Jason smiled and it was Nico’s turn to wave -- though his was quite ironic. Charles turned back to his companion. “What would you like? I must say, the Ella is quite good.”

“Whatever you think is best,” Erik was still looking around with wide eyes. If he was a less cultured individual, no doubt his mouth would be wide open. “Hello, Jason and Nico.”

Nico snorted. Jason elbowed him sharply without even having to look. _What an enviable skill._

“One Ella it is, then. And some of Hazel’s beignets if you please.” Charles nodded to the two baristas and lead Erik gently to his favorite table. The shop is, of course, deserted with the exception of the four of them, in following with literary tradition. Once seated, Erik dropped his bag with a thud and cradled his head in his hands.

This was not the reaction Charles usually got from his dates.

“It’s a lot to take in all at once, is it not?” Charles murmured sympathetically, wondering whether to pat the man gently on the head or not. “Hazel’s beignets really are a thing of wonder.”

The table fell into an awkward silence. Charles stared at Erik, fiddling with the cutlery and tablecloth. Erik stared at the walls, then at Charles and then back to his hands again. It was Nico who deposited the coffee and nibbles at their table a few minutes later. He took one look at them and left again without another word (save a quick thought of _Holy Achilles, the unresolved sexual tension present here is about to burn my retinas off_ ) in a display of remarkable tact and dragged a sputtering Jason into an anteroom.

“So…” Charles said, twiddling his thumbs. “Maybe we should try this again.”

“Mmhm.” Erik cleared his throat and took a sip of coffee, eyes widening as he swallowed. Score one for Xavier.

“Clearly, you know that all manner of beasties exist among us. And gods. Bucket loads of them.” Charles himself took a sip of English Breakfast. “My own father is mortal. My mother is the goddess Psyche, of the soul and mind. You can’t even begin to imagine the number of fun things that lets me do.”

Erik blinked. Charles changed tack rapidly. “Fine. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. Here, think of a number between one and one-hundred.”

“Are you...serious?”

“As the plague, my friend. Or ask me the type of pie Jason wants for breakfast.”

“Alright,” Erik squared his shoulders. “Go ahead.”

Charles concentrated very hard, two fingers resting against his temple. Erik raised an eyebrow, which he ignored. Everyone else was malleable, all their thoughts appearing as radio chatter and constant news feed in the back of his head -- but Erik is different. He’s special. There are tall, thick walls built up around his mind, made to keep the loneliness away. He needed to put forth a disproportionate effort to find a simple number. Then something flickered, and he gleaned the knowledge.

He sighed wearily. The nonbelievers always hurt his feelings the deepest. “Seven, Erik, really? And it’s apple pecan, by the way.”

Erik stared at Charles like he was the last chocolate glazed donut in the box. _This is the result of my education and subsequent doctorate: similes involving baked goods. Excellent_.

“You can...read my mind?” He sounded dumbfounded and ever so slightly suspicious. Scratch that, very suspicious and Charles was very offended but he tried to push that away as quickly as it came over him. You couldn’t really blame him.

“Basically.” Charles grinned, “But yours is very carefully locked down, my friend, I barely get anything from you save that you’re still alive and breathing. Everyone else is background music in my head.” He tapped his temple.

Erik continued to stare.

“Goodness, Erik. You’ll make me blush. Your turn.” He took a dainty bite of beignet and licked the powdered sugar from his fingers. Another of his patented moves, and it was a sign of how truly his companion must’ve been disconcerted that he didn’t even notice it.

The other man glanced around the room with a contemplative air. Then he reached into his pocket and withdrew a very familiar pen. Now it was Charles’ time to blink confusedly. How the worm turns.

“Is that...Enkéfalos? What on earth? I thought I left it in the station!”

Erik nodded crisply. “You did,”

Without another word, the pen rose into the air lazily and came to land delicately on Charles’ plate. Charles poked at it like it was an alien life form.

“I thought you said you were a child of Aphrodite.” It sounded quite dumb as it left his lips. “Clearly, that is Hephaestus. It has to be. That’s, like, the trademark of the god of smiths and, and _metal._ ”

Erik frowned slightly. “No, definitely Aphrodite. I ask the metal to do things, and it responds to me. Outside of that, I’m fairly useless.”

The image of Erik swanning around in a bespoke suit, like a German double-o-seven, seducing both men and women left and right popped into his head and he had to work very hard to make sure he wasn’t projecting because that would be so embarrassing there weren’t enough exclamation points in the world for it. _I seriously doubt that, my friend._ Charles couldn’t help but lick his lips quickly. I _think I could find a use for you._

“A form of charmspeak, then?” Charles wrenched his thoughts away from their current path and steepled his fingers, trying to be thoroughly intrigued as he knew he should’ve been. “Does it work on plastic? Anything -- anyone -- else?”

“No.” was the laconic response. Charles raised a singular eyebrow for elaboration.

“Titanium doesn’t like me,” Erik had a look on his face that would be described as a pout on a lesser man. “It ignores me when I call it.”

A conglomeration of things started rising from his pockets -- spare change and the like, and they started forming an orbiting halo around Erik’s head. Like they were trying to comfort him. It was shockingly beautiful.

“I do believe I am lost for words, my friend.”

“That makes for a wonderful change of pace.”

“You,” Charles shook his head, “are the progeny of Aphrodite, with a posse of pet paperclips to boot.”

“Extra points for the alliteration. I even saw the dove and everything.” Charles looked at him dumbly, “You know --” Erik gestured, “the sigil that floats above your head -- at eleven. She gave me a makeover, too.”

Again, on anyone else Charles would call the facial expression a pout. His eyes went slate grey for the moment.

“Well, boohoo, I’m sorry she hurt your feelings, darling.”

Medusa’s wonky weave, the endearment dripped from his tongue quite naturally. He was in deep, and hadn’t even known the man for over an hour. What a glorious hour, though. Erik’s eyes got this cute little glazed over look that made Charles want to hug him and never let go, and then shifted into a deep green shade. That is Charles Xavier’s new favorite color.

They descended into a bickering conversation that contained much of Erik’s childhood in Germany. His parents, such as they were, met in America. This very city, in fact. Then his father moved back to his home country with a week Erik Magnus. _Erik Magnus Lehnsherr_. That’s possibly the most majestic baby name he has ever heard in his entire life. They make it all the way up to age twelve with no incident. Then Erik fell silent, paperclips contorting themselves into  Möbius strips around him.

“Erik?” Charles inquired, leaning forward in his seat slightly.

“That was when we met Schmidt.” Erik said tightly. “Klaus Schmidt.”

By all rights, at the sound of his name thunder should’ve been rolling in the background and lightning should’ve hit the ground with an almighty crack as the name left the man’s lips. Damn it, Zeus, where is your preternatural sense of the theatrical when you need it.

“Er.” Charles is not quite sure where to go from here. “Klaus Schmidt? Synonymous with the devil, one presumes?”

“He also went by Sebastian Shaw.” The man looked like he wanted to strangle something, so the brief levity went flying over his head. “He was a Neo-Nazi, my family was Jewish. He...found us and experimented on me, and I...he shot my mother when I couldn’t move a coin fast enough. A simple coin.

“Actually,” Erik corrected himself irritably, “That’s not quite true. He shot a golem in the shape of my mother, in order to persuade me. Aphrodite can’t die. Not that I knew at the time.” Erik’s dark and brooding stare could give Rochester’s a run for his money. His eyes went pitch black again.

“Clearly,” Charles floundered for the right words. In this particular case, there weren’t any, really. Just a few that were better than the others. “Love can never perish.”

_And then there are those particular ones that suck righteously. Oh gods, Charles, you’re such a failure. How eloquent of you. You sound like a ruddy Hallmark card._

Erik shot him a look.

He blushed profusely. “Ignore my ramblings. My friend, for what it’s worth, I’m so sorry you had to see that.”

Erik smiled tightly. Charles wanted to eradicate that facial expression from his vocabulary permanently. “I’m not anymore, really. It’s been my motivation for a very long time.”

The table descended into another silence. The two proprietors were nowhere to be found. Charles fiddled with his napkin again.

“So,” Erik finally said, “You’ve heard my story --” _hardly, great chunks of it are missing_ , “now I want yours. What were you doing at the train station tonight?”

Clearly this was an attempt to get the conversation rolling again. It was not going to end well.

“Ah, yes,” said Charles. “That.”

 

The silence was a long and telling one. Erik opened his mouth but Charles interrupted him brusquely because the words needed to come out, even poorly spoken, before they lodged in his throat. Permanently.

“Frankly, my friend, it was because my baby sister was brutally murdered a week ago and today was the day I found out about it. I needed to be alone, so I thought to myself ‘ _let’s go somewhere loud and somewhere we can’t here anyone we know think sad thoughts at us_ ’.”

And there was the truth of the matter, falling utterly short of the magnitude. His words tended to do that.

“She was beautiful.” Charles said, a bit too dryly. “Really and truly a wonder.” He fished around in his other pocket for his wallet, and carefully withdrew his favorite photo of her. It had been raining that day at camp, and she was holding a large punnet of strawberries and was wearing absolutely nothing but a pair of wellies and a great deal of mud.

He gingerly passed it to Erik, who took it reverently. His eyes went up and down and then he passed it back just as carefully to Charles. The shorter man had been watching his face like a hawk, waiting for the tell-tale eyebrow raise or nostril flare of shock. There had been none.

Xavier, one. Lehnsherr, one. The little thing in the back of his mind shouted _they broke the mold with this one_.

“She looks like force of nature to me.” Erik said, looking Charles straight in the eye. “A force of nature in godawful yellow boots.”

Charles took the photo back and slid it gingerly back into its slot of honor. “She was a daughter of old Proteus, but we assume somewhere she was descended from Krishna or the like: hence the blue skin. We weren’t really related, but we were siblings in all but blood.”

Erik flinched. “You mean...the other gods are alive, too?”

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” Charles said cheerfully, far more cheerfully than he felt. “It raises so many questions from both an anthropological _and_ a genetical point of view.”

“I bet you say that to all the boys, Charles Xavier.” Erik raised an eyebrow at Charles from over his coffee mug. “What on earth goes on in that prodigious brain of yours? I’d certainly like to find out.”

"It would be my great pleasure to enlighten you, Erik Lehnsherr."


	2. you're giving me such sweet nothings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'd like to thank every single one of you for your continuing interest in this little fandom mindfuck. Between two jobs and school, you might not be seeing much of me but I swear on the deity of your choice that I will finish what I have started!
> 
> Warning for character death stuff and darker feels. All will be explained in time. This chapter is much shorter than the first, I'm still trying to fall into some sense of a chapter-length-routine

_“I wonder,” he said at last,“whether they will remember about our Table?”_ _Merlin did not answer. His head was bowed on the white beard and his hands clasped between his knees._ _"_ _What sort of people will they be, Merlin?” cried the young man’s voice, unhappily._ \-- T.H. White's  _The Once and Future King_

  

The diamond woman was sitting in his dreamscape. _The diamond woman was sitting in his dreamscape_. In his squashy armchair, to be more precise, right next to the heavily laden bookshelves filled with his memories, next to the glass cases containing his primary school education. Filing her already perfect fingernails into marginally more perfect ovals. _Filing her nails._ This should not be possible. To be fair, the whole scene was a lesson in fantasy.

"Help,” Charles said weakly, floundering for something to lean on and coming to rest on a window ledge. His bloodless face reflected in the panes of glass, “I appear to have fallen down the rabbit hole and can’t get back up.”

“Oh, _sugar_.” Her voice was oddly mellifluous, yet had an underlying quality that was reminiscent of nails on chalkboard. “You’re far from Wonderland. Got any crackers?”

 

Charles’ eyes fluttered open very slowly, any ground gained was ground grudgingly given indeed. Rain was sliding down the window panes, and the tardy thunder was chortling very quietly. There was a cold and empty depression on the other side of his bed, but a delicious smell wafting in from the kitchen.

Slowly, slowly, he rose to his feet and staggered down the hallway and tripped down the stairs. On the kitchen table, there lay a plate with a great deal of aluminum foil over it, from which everything that was good and holy seemed to be emanating. There was also a note in scratchy handwriting next to it, which read:

 _Charles -- You may have noticed by now that I have left the environs of your freakishly large mansion. Congratulations; I had no idea you were so loaded. I have made you pancakes, some plain and some with blueberries_ ( _bless you_ , Erik, thought Charles very fondly) _and have covered them with an obscene amount of butter and maple syrup. The genuine article, not that carcinogenic shit you had in your fridge. Note the past tense -- I had to throw it out: it was an affront to my very being. I don’t believe you will mind. If you do, you are clearly not worth knowing. No doubt, however, you could afford to pay me for my labors._ ( _Haha, very funny, Erik,_ Charles thought a little less fondly).

_I have gone to work for the day, but if it is amenable, I would like to take you out for dinner and a show tomorrow night. You’ll find my number._

_E.M.L_.

Dinner and a show, eh? Erik’s number was, of course, written in magic marker down Charles’ forearm. There was even a smiley face with sharp teeth drawn at the end of the string of numbers. Just in case he forgot whose number it was. Frankly, he was considering getting it tattooed on permanently.

“Git,” He said with much amusement and mouth full of delicious pancake to the thin air. It sounded more like a death threat in Klingon.

Charles was apparently still wearing Erik’s clothes and had consequently slept in them: the button down consisted of one giant wrinkle and waking up from sleeping in tight jeans was quite the uncomfortable experience. At least his shoes were off. And Erik had absconded with his peacoat that he left in the duffel bag. That alone was grounds for another date. Or three. Or a betrothal.

Leisurely, the pancakes were savored and vanquished and Charles was left on his own again. The rain from much earlier was still coming down in bucket loads, and the sky was a dismal slate color. The clock read slightly before noon, and the noise of the second hand ticking to and fro seemed to fill the room.

Breakfast had been quite good, really.

He flipped through the newspaper idly. He didn’t really have anything else to do. Sure, his thesis could use a little more tender love and care, but let us be realistic here.

And Raven was still dead.

He had rather hoped this would’ve been ameliorated by now.

 

_Previously on other people’s heartaches_

Their highly unconventional date had culminated in a very nice session of heavy petting and snogging -- a wondrous thing, a joy forever -- in the alleyway outside the shop. Being maintained by harpy cleaning ladies, it was a very clean alleyway. If it hadn’t been, said makeout session would not have existed in the first place: Charles did have high standards, really. It was only a matter of convincing himself.

“Mmph. Oh, _Erik_ \--”

“Charles,” Erik’s voice had suddenly taken on a very alarmed tone -- and what was truly alarming about the situation was the fact that he was no longer kissing him, “Charles, I think you’re bleeding.”

“Mmm, really? At least it’s down my face and not into my brain --”

It was as if the injury was justing waiting in the wings for Charles to sass it to retaliate. Instantly, he doubled over hacking and coughing, the center of his chest felt like it was on _fire_ , and oh gods he was going to die without having been properly shagged by Erik. He wasn’t sure which thing was the worst.

“ _Ow_.” He ground out between wheezes, spitting little droplets of blood and sliding down the wall to come to a sitting position.

“Charles?” Erik was crouched next to him, “You’re coughing up blood -- don’t you dare be a fucking martyr or move an _inch_ \--” He whirled away gracefully and nearly reached warp speed going back into the shop.

“Can’t. Move. Don’t worry.” Charles gasped out to the shimmering afterimage of Erik. Oh, this hurt like blazes, this was most uncomfortable. Something felt very broken indeed.

“Chuck,” And Erik was back with Nico who strode with purpose and Jason who hovered in the background, like his very blond shadow.

“ _Don’t call me that,_ ” he groaned, feeling very sorry for himself indeed.

“Ah, he’ll be fine.” Nico said, grinning darkly. “He’s not going to die tonight.”

“That is not exactly reassuring,” Erik muttered, crouching again and wiping blood from Charles’ chin without a thought for his own sleeve. Charles fell a little bit more in love.

“His bedside manner is a little lacking,” Jason offered feebly. The h _e and I are going to have words about this later_ went unsaid.

Someone shoved a warm cup into Charles’ face and, clucking, someone else guided it to his mouth with considerably more gentleness. Mm, caffeinated nectar. No wonder Jackal and Ibis there ran a coffee shop.

“That’s it, _Liebling_ , drink it all.”

“I do not have a sweet heart.” Charles was affronted, but feeling much better as the liquid wormed its way down his throat. “I am, however, vaguely worried about my person spontaneously immolating due to overindulgence in godly pharmaceuticals. I am quite fond of it.”

“It,” Erik snorted, relief audible in every inflection of his response. “You get very eloquent under duress.”

“I already told you,” Nico said wearily. “You are not going to die tonight.”

“Immolation doesn’t always end in certain death,” He pointed out, just to be contrary.

Nico was not in the mood. “Quit being a little shit, Chuck, nine out of ten times you’re a smoldering pile of ashes on the carpet.”

“Charles,” Erik scolded, “Stop testing the man’s goodwill. With you I’m certain it only stretches to a certain point.”

“Hey,” He protested, feeling the sharp radiating pains smooth away, “I am a very likable person. Some call me gregarious. You can call me what you want, but just don’t call me late for dinner.” He smiled cheesily.

Erik slid a hand down his face.

 

 _the present day_  

And Raven was still dead somewhere. This is slowly becoming as familiar to him as one of his own limbs. There are no tears in his eyes: it’s a mere restatement of the facts. He scrubbed at them anyway, just because it felt like the right thing to do. Slowly, he placed his dishes in the sink and walked around the kitchen, tidying already immaculate shelves and checking expiration dates.

More than half of his manor house was still covered in drop cloths and dusty sheets despite his years of residence. The grounds were in a state of despair, though, due to the fact he had forgotten to hire a groundskeeper or gardener. Maybe he could spend the day wrecking havoc on the hydrangeas. Pruning was a very cathartic activity. All you had to do was picture your enemies’ necks in place of the stems. The sound of the shears meeting was a beautiful one.

He undressed and showered mechanically, ignoring the twinges in his chest when he moved in a direction his torso did not approve of. He redressed just as robotically, still feeling a little numb, in muck boots and clothes suitable for heavy labor. The garden outside was absolutely sopping but you could tell that the lawns rather appreciated it and were growing at twice the normal rate to compensate. In some patches, the weeds were up to the tops of his thighs. It was still raining.

The hydrangeas were a riot of colors, all purples and blues ( _oh, Raven_ ): maybe he could somehow work this into his thesis, seeing as they mutated and changed color because of enzymes and soil acidity. No, actually, _Homo sapiens_ and _Homo neanderthalis_ had no relation to _Hydrangea paniculata_. Nice try, Xavier. Stray leaves and unruly stems fell to the ground as he worked, and he left a trail of assorted leafy paraphernalia behind him. Chop chop went the shears and as his muscles started to cramp and his hands started to ache, Charles Xavier started to feel a little better.

Yes, Raven was dead, maybe she wasn’t even buried yet. This could not be fixed, he could not bring her back: this was an ironclad fact. Science is as science does. No, this was not really a socially acceptable therapy in light of that, but he was working on it. Part of him would always be missing, but if he tracked down who killed her and decapitated them with extreme prejudice, she would be avenged. He wouldn’t grieve for her by wearing black or sobbing into her sheets: he would do something noble and bloody and worthy of her. No more of this wallowing bullshit.

No more.

He moved onto the quince bushes, working tirelessly and brushing stray pink petals off his face when they objected to being cut back. Eventually, he noticed a slight sensation in his right hand and paused, shucking off his glove to check. He’d managed to slice a careless strip into his thumb, right through the tough fabric. The blood welled up as he squeezed it, rummaging around for some Kleenex or something to staunch it.

However, the disturbing thing was that no one had any idea who killed his baby sister. Chiron had not exactly been forthcoming. That was the thing about destiny, though -- no one ever wants to spill the beans.

 

_The day prior, before the station incident_

“Charles,” Chiron eyed him, “Charles. Did you hear what I said?”

He nodded jerkily, hand coming up to cover his mouth involuntarily. Oh, yes, he’d heard him. It was just a matter of wrapping his brain around the ghastly matter.

“That’s -- that’s not possible, sir. I saw her --”

“A week ago?” The centaur murmured sympathetically. “Yes, that’s what everyone’s been saying. They say she went off to visit a friend and didn’t come back. The friend, when questioned, said she hadn’t even arrived.”

What.

“But she’s Raven, for fuck’s sake!” He stood, gesticulating furiously, making the one-eighty from shocked to mad. “You know what she's like -- she’s damn well inscrutable and fucking meticulous: maybe she just doesn’t want to be found for a while! Everyone deserves a, a mental health day!”

“Charles.” The centaur said slowly, wiping a hand down his face, smoothing his beard, “We found something, too. I had much the same thoughts as you, at first, but then we started tracking her down.”

“What. Did you. _Find_.”

 _Please, Zeus and Hades, don’t say a body, I couldn’t take it, I couldn’t bear it, Raven is not dead, she’s just playing a rather long-term and elaborate prank on us, oh_ please.

Chiron swallowed. “A great deal of blood. Clumps of red hair and blue scales -- footprints as well -- and dragging marks. Like a --”

Body. His baby sister, stretched out on the ground, contorted and purpling. Bloating in the hot weather or rotting in the rain. He wanted to retch.

Charles held out a hand. _Don’t say it_. “This is not possible.”

“I know.” Chiron looked at him with a knowing look, and that was too much, it was the final straw that broke the mutant's back.

He lashed out, wiping picture frames from the desk with a satisfying crash. “No, you don’t! She’s my baby sister, I'm supposed to protect her!”

The door flew open with a greater crash and three paranoid demigods piled in, nervous lights in their eyes and swords held up. Charles, startled, turned around to face the source of the noise but then released a cry of grief like nothing mattered anymore, tearing at his hair and jackknifing his body.

Which it didn’t.

“What the everloving fuck is going on?” Percy Jackson stepped in behind the rest of the cowering demigods, sharp green eyes roving from one berserk bibliophile to one cowed centaur, lingering on the shards of broken glass. Annabeth poked her head in behind him, took one look around and ushered everyone else out, shutting the door behind her. She was the very definition of tact personified.

“Language,” Chiron reprimanded half-heartedly, tail swishing with anxiety.

Tears were rolling down Charles’ face, and snot was dribbling down his lip and yet he couldn’t help himself. There was a horrific, ululating wail coming from somewhere in the room, like a dying animal’s, that Charles wouldn’t realize until much later that he was the source of it.

“Charles.”

“No!” He swiped out with his mind, picturing it as a blade and aiming for the one that smelled like licorice and blue birthday cake. “Go away!”

“Cut it out, man.” Percy grabbed his arm, using his far greater strength and height to his advantage. “You’re projecting, Charles, you’re probably scaring the younger kids.”

Charles lashed out again, a lucky strike that threw Percy off balance. “I don’t care, nothing matters, don’t you _see_ \--”

“No, I don’t.” He said matter of factly. “We all have dead people, Xavier. But that’s never an excuse to every other person here dead along the way, too. You aren’t here half the time, hell, neither am I. But you aren’t the person the little kids come crying to after they wake up with nightmares. If you keep this up, there will be no more good nights for a very long time. Jesus, we have it bad enough already. Kids here already have to deal with godly drama, they don’t need to see dead blue women in their dreams either.”

“Percy…” Chiron trailed off. Charles glared at both of them.

“That’s my sister you’re talking about,”

The demigod at least had the decency to look abashed. “I didn’t mean it like that --”

The centaur interrupted him, “Thank you, Percy. Charles, I appreciate the gravity of your situation. Be that as it may, I think Percy has a point as well. You are, of course, always welcome here but I believe that maybe you should, ah, take a short vacation, maybe go visit your estate --”

Percy snorted ( _estate, good grief_ ), Chiron threw up his hands and stamped his hooves in a rare moment of discomposure. “In short, I think you need some time off, Charles. Come back in a few days, then we’ll talk more. Is that amenable?”

“Certainly,” Charles spat out, “Is there a particular distance you’d like me to get from the rest of your students, sir?”

“Listen, punk --” Percy bristled, “This is for your own good and the good of others. We have _five-year olds_ here.”

The shorter man collected his coat and scarf with shaking hands and stalked out, turning around only to call back virulently. “Don’t even bother,”

He left silence in his wake, and the two exchanged looks. Percy chewed on his lip and Chiron massaged at his temples.

“He’s not normally like this.” Chiron offered solemnly.

“Yeah, I got that, thank the gods.” The demigod started picking things up off the ground, “I really stuck my foot in my mouth, didn’t I?”

“Indeed,” He sighed, “I don’t know what he’s going to do.”

“Mm.” Percy studied his hands briefly, “That’s just what I was thinking, too. I don’t think I want to know, either.”

 

Needless to say, that was not one of Charles’ finer moments. And we all know what would go down some ten odd hours after that.

That night, he washed Erik’s clothes, the ones he had given him after the attack, taking care to iron the shirt and fold the jeans properly and use his best smelling laundry soaps. He went to bed with a whisky on the bedside table and his thesis tucked away under his pillow and fell asleep to the sounds of nothing.

 

Veteran of oddities though he indubitably is, Charles has never really hallucinated on such a grand scale ever before. And certainly not two nights in a row.

“You’re not hallucinating, either, sweet cheeks.”

He pointed an accusatory finger at her that shook ever so slightly. “Erik killed you. You destroyed my Heisenberg t-shirt and almost killed me. You broke several bones in my body. This does not endear you to me. I remember this distinctly.”

The look she shot him was distinctly pitying. “Sugar, dead things don’t die twice, you should know that by now. And that thing you called a garment was an eyesore.”

“Ha bloody ha, no. No, no, get out now. Leave and never come back here.” He gestured and a neon exit sign appeared in a shower of sparks above the weathered front door.

Her faint smile suddenly turned feral and she loomed over him, running a cold hand through his hair and bending down to catch his lips between hers in a fierce kiss. Charles nearabout jumped out of his skin.

_Where did that come from?_

“I can help you find the man who took your sister away from you.” She murmured: her face felt like a sheet of glacial ice where it was pressed against Charles', dwarfing his own comically. “Just say the word, sugar. Oh, the places we could _see_. We could rule the world, you and I. _If you’re man enough_.”

The exit sign glowed even brighter.

“Now, if you don’t mind.” Charles whispered.

She stepped back from him, gloriously bright and blinding -- perfect in every aspect, and very tall. At least twelve feet. “Don’t think you’ve seen the last of me.”

This was not a pleasant habit to be falling into as he slept. He did not interact with monsters while he slept: he killed them. Over and over and over again. And they most certainly did not come back for seconds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References
> 
> 1\. Chapter name comes from "Sweet Nothings" by Florence + The Machine and Calvin Harris
> 
> 2\. Guardians of the Galaxy movie quote “We all have dead people but that’s no excuse to get everyone else dead along the way.”
> 
> 3\. Jackal and Ibis are two characters from Neil Gaiman’s fantastic American Gods that run a funeral home together.
> 
> 4\. Previously On Other People's Heartaches is a song by Bastille -- and can we just take a moment to talk about how perfect All This Bad Blood is for a Cherik soundtrack? kthnxbai

**Author's Note:**

> Hmm. I'm not sure how long this is going to be, or how many chapters. But we shall persevere!
> 
> Homages and References, not in any particular chronological order:
> 
> 1\. Bits of dialogue are directly from the XMFC movie  
> 2\. Reference lines from a Robert Frost poem ("many promises to keep" etc, etc.)  
> 3\. "That's all there is, Gansey" is a reference to Maggie Stiefvater's incomparable Raven Boys  
> 4\. According to Google Translate, Enkefalos means "brain". Please correct me if I'm wrong!  
> 5\. Holy tax accountant, Castiel!


End file.
